Cold Wet Skin

         I can hear the moans but I can’t locate the exact origin. The late afternoon light intermittently blinds me through openings in the heavy canopy of leaves overhead. The air is thick and I can feel the weight of it in my lungs as I struggle to weave between the trees toward the noise that is making my heart ache. It is such a desolate sound that it reverberates through me and pushes me to keep moving toward its source. My legs are burning and my breath coming in labored gasps, but still I run.

         Up ahead, I can see the trees beginning to thin and more light streaming through their thick cover. The moaning is growing louder and clearer, becoming a mournful female wail. In the back of my mind, I feel the stirrings of recognition. I quickly squelch the idea, certain that no woman I know would be this deep in the woods making such a sorrowful sound. I push my protesting legs a little harder.

         The trees end abruptly and I find myself standing in a clearing dominated by a small farm. Directly in front of me is an old country house with peeling white paint and a porch swing rocking slightly against the wind. The light is now the muted hue of early dusk. The wails seem to be coming from behind the house. I vaguely note the temperature change in the shadow of the house as I walk around to the back. I am sure now that I know the voice and bitter dread sinks into my soul as I realize who the owner of that voice is- my mother.

         I step around the corner of the farmhouse into the last rays of sun steeling myself for what I will see. For a moment I am confused. I had prepared to see some horrible sight or the remnants of some tragic accident. Instead, my mother is sitting on the grass with her legs tucked beneath her rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her face. Her long hair is loose and blowing gently in the breeze. She is wearing an old faded pink nightgown and hugging herself tightly with her eyes closed and those terrible heart wrenching moans flowing from her very core.

         “Mom?” I say softly. Her body jerks as if she has been struck and her eyes fly open wide. Fear and shame flood her face before she covers it with trembling hands.

         “Don’t look at me, don’t look at me!” she cries.

         “Mom, what’s wrong” I pursue.

         “Just go, Lynnie!”She shouts. “Just leave, you can’t see me…you can’t be here now!”

         “Mom, I’m not leav-“

         “I said GO!” she screams so shrilly my own throat flexes in sympathy of the strain. She stands and runs toward the house, trips and falls to her knees. I watch as she bends and lays her face down to the ground and begins sobbing.

         “Mom, please tell me what’s wrong, you are scaring me!” I whisper urgently. She doesn’t respond so I step toward her.

         ‘Please, Lynnie,” she whispers. “Please just go home. You can’t see this. You won’t understand.”

         “Mom,” I begin before she dissolves back into sobs. In despair I glance up and notice it for the first time.

         In the center of the backyard is a huge galvanized cattle trough like we used as a swimming pool when I was a child. It is filled with water and something else that I can’t quite make out from this distance but my heart skips nonetheless. I glance back down at my mother and brittle fear settles around me. She feels my gaze and quiets, but she does not face me.

         “Mom, the pool.” I say, unsure how to continue.

         “Stay away, Lynnie. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please I’m sorry…,” her cries now replaced with this new mantra.

         I can still hear her litany of apologies as I move toward the trough. It looks like piles of laundry floating on the surface of the dark water. The daylight is slipping away and casting shadows over the farm. My legs are shaking from exhaustion and fear as I near the pool and the contents begin to take shape. The air gushes from my lungs and the world tilts before me as I reach the side of the trough and the true image clicks into place before me. I grip the metallic side of the trough to keep from falling. My own raw screams mimic those of my mother’s from mere moments ago.

         There is clothing in the pool. It is worn by my sister. Her cherubic face is turned up and her big brown eyes stare sightlessly at the evening sky. Her skin is so pale and bloated I cannot be sure how long she has been here. Finally my paralysis breaks and I reach out to her cold body. My fingers tangle in her shirt and I pull her toward me. My fingers slip and I grab at her again. This time I feel the slick skin of her arm and she comes easily to the side of the trough with a single tug. With her so near me, I finally realize something is not right. Sandra is my twin sister and yet the cold lifeless body I am pulling form the pool can’t be more than four years old. Another look at her face confirms without a doubt it is Sandra. Despite my confusion, I pull her completely out of the trough and slide to the ground with her body. I cradle her head and look up at my mother. For the first time I notice how young my mother looks, the absence of gray in her loosely flying hair, the smoothness of her cheeks and the youth of her voice.

         “Let her go, Lynnie. She is gone,” she says softly.

         I jerk awake shaking and gasping for air. I blink to clear away the nightmare and feel the tears stream down my face. My surroundings start to become familiar and my heart slows, then sinks. I am in the little hospital room where my twin sister has been fighting for her life for the past four days following the rupture of a brain aneurysm. I try to push the cloud of sleep and anguish of my dream from my mind. Sitting up in the chair from my slouched position I find my hand still linked with Sandra’s just as I had put it before dosing off. I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb and feel the coolness of her skin. My eyes fly to her face and dismay fills my heart.

         Her skin is ashen and her eyes are closed. She looks peaceful and absent all at once and a part of me shatters. My mother is sitting on the other side of the bed holding her other hand and crying quietly. Without preamble, the tears resume running down my face and I lean forward to place a kiss on her hand. I leaned back but couldn’t let go of her hand. She is my other half and I have never been without her in my life. Disbelief floods my mind and my eyes search out my mothers. Our gazes lock and I know her words before they leave her mouth.

         “Let her go, Lynnie. She is gone,” she says softly. The last of my resolve crumbles and I succumb to the grief in shaking sobs.